Stranger in a Strange Land
by ijs1337
Summary: WARNING: DON'T READ IF YOU HAVEN'T BEATEN THE GAME Fifteen years after he thought he lost his daughter, Booker DeWitt is contacted by a strange man. A man who reminds Booker of truths and selves he forgot, left behind, or killed. A man who needs Booker's help to save reality from a threat that doesn't exist. Rating may change. Please review.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: I'm not going to say anything about Infinite, because the only thing we really can say about it is that it's perfect. I guess that counts as saying something, but whatever. Now, in the interests of this making sense, this is not AU. This takes place after the post-credits ending scene, and what we all know happened in that scene (I'm neglecting to state specifically what in the interests of keeping this spoiler-free for the people who haven't beaten the game yet.) In fact, it takes place YEARS after that scene. Also, word of warning: this'll be a bit more sci-fi-y and outlandish than we're used to with Bioshock, even Infinite. But I figured, if Infinite is that clever, subtle subtitle that reveals the true nature of the franchise, the stuff I toss in can't be that ridiculous in context. So, please review and comment. I do not own Bioshock, Bioshock Infinite, nor any affiliated characters.**

Stranger in a Strange Land

Chapter 1

Booker DeWitt leaned back in his chair, enjoying several minutes of inactivity and peace. He'd turned to far less riskier cases when he'd found Anna back in her crib, but that didn't mean that the work itself wasn't still draining. It paid well, though. His business had expanded somewhat over the last few years. He didn't have to live out of his office anymore; his office itself was part of a larger building on a floor he owned; he had a secretary to screen potential clients for him. Glancing at the clock, he saw he had maybe twenty minutes before Anna's school let out. He pushed himself out of his chair and was about to go grab his coat when the small phone on his desk rang.

Sighing, he pulled the receiver up to his mouth.

"What is it, Claire?" he asked.

"There's someone here to see you, Mr. DeWitt." Claire said on the other end of the line.

Booker sighed again. She must've known he was done for the day. She'd worked for him long enough to know his routine by now. He'd leave the office for good each day to pick up his daughter.

"Well, tell them to try again tomorrow. You know-"

"He says he works for the government, sir. Says it's urgent and can't wait until tomorrow." She sounded slightly worried. Whoever this man was, he must have been legitimate somehow. Maybe not a G-man, but maybe something else. Something that was just as important, but far less respectable.

"Fine. I can spare five minutes. Get them in here."

Booker hung up and walked to get his coat. He'd just finished pulling it on when his office door opened.

A man wearing a long black leather jacket walked in and closed the door behind him. His face was grizzled, slightly tanned, maybe five years younger than Booker himself. Salt-and-pepper hair with blue eyes. There was a small brown leather pouch attached to the left side of the man's belt, and what looked like a gun holster tucked behind his coat on the right side.

"The G-men relax the dress code?" Booker asked sarcastically.

The man stopped and turned in a circle, eyes sweeping the office.

"I don't work for the government, Mr. DeWitt. I just figured that saying I did would get me time with you." The man replied.

Booker slowly reached for the drawer in his desk where he kept a spare pistol for situations like this when something happened that made him stop dead.

The man's face blurred and disappeared. In its place was a full-covering black mask, made of some material Booker didn't recognize. Small, glowing blue glass pieces covered the man's eyes. Absolutely nothing of the man's face could be seen now.

The man reached down and popped off the latch on the pouch on his belt. A small line of leather, laden with gadgets and tools Booker had never seen before rolled out and down the man's leg, stopping level with his pelvis. The man pulled a small, tubular device from a slot in the line of leather. He pointed it at Booker and pressed a button. A small stick with a little blue light on the end extended out of the tube. It projected a long line of blue light, that swept up and down over Booker.

"What the hell?" Booker asked, holding up a hand to shield his eyes.

The light died and the stick retracted back into the tube. A bit of the tube's top lit up green and made a beeping sound. The man nodded, slid the tube back into place and rolled up the pouch again.

"Well, that's a relief." The man said to himself.

"What is going on here?" Booker asked angrily.

" , I'm here because I need your help." The man thought for a second, then continued. "Actually, I need the help of one of several million other yous that no longer technically exist. So I'm here to ask for your help because you're all I can get. No disrespect intended."

Booker had to wait a minute, thinking about what the man had just said.

"What?" he finally asked. He didn't know what else to say.

"Oh, come on, DeWitt. I know you know what I'm talking about. I know you still remember. You've just chosen to forget, to deny the most fundamental truth of existence that so few people ever even learn. It's sad, really."

The man was close now, at the edge of the other side of the desk.

Booker groaned in sudden pain. Something strange was happening: his head felt like it was splitting in two, and what looked like static was sliding in on the edges of his vision. He felt something wet touch the top of his lip. Reaching beneath his nose, his fingers came away bloody.

"Get out of my office." He said firmly.

The man remained. The mask shifted slightly. The man was probably smiling underneath.

Booker yanked the desk drawer open and tore his spare pistol out of it, pointing the gun at the man's head.

"Get the hell out of my office." He said again.

The man held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. He reached into one of his coat pockets, and withdrew a large exquisitely crafted bottle. It was brass, colored blue in some spots, with the head of a bird forming the cap. A small brass coin was laced around the neck of the bottle. The lettering on the coin read '_Murder of Crows._'

The man set the bottle down on the desk. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a plain white business card. He set it down beside the bottle. The only thing on the card was a telephone number.

"Call me. If you start remembering in earnest." The man said.

He turned and walked toward the door, the face he'd had when he walked in reappearing over the mask. "And ?" The man offered. "While it might not quite be you in particular who is needed, some form of you is needed. Sorely. And existence can't afford to be picky."

**Note: In case my description of the mysterious guest's gadget pouch is absolute butchery and hard to understand (which it kind of is, admittedly) follow this link watch?v=Amo2AWS8BhQ&list=PL0BD4DDEDB4BC7E80&index=13 and wait for Sherlock to open up his pouch of detective tools. That's how the gadget pouch works. Except it isn't placed directly above the crotch.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: Not much to say here either. Well, actually, if you ever research the typical cuisines of the 1900s, you're going to get a lot of fairly unhelpful, general descriptions. The most specific stuff I found was something that seemed like it was half-comedy-list, and something that read literally like a menu in the form of a timeline. What can I say. When you make a Bioshock Infinite fanfic, you're kinda obligated to aim for the greatest amount of accuracy possible. If only to do justice to the property. I also feel I ought to warn all of you that updates will be sporadic for a while, as classes start up again tomorrow. So that really cuts into potential writing time. Anyways. Please review and comment. I do not own Bioshock, Bioshock Infinite, nor any affiliated characters.**

Booker pulled back his chair from the table and sat down. Picking up his fork and knife, he made small cuts into the main dish. It was rather plain fare: some leftover beef slices from the night before, with corn and some bread. A good deal of the money he earned in the business had to go back into keeping the business itself in working order. Whatever was left over let him and Anna live fairly comfortably, though not overly so. They weren't rich by any stretch of the imagination, but they did alright.

Booker glanced up at the deep blue dress Anna had on, one of those occasional finer-things purchases. The pain he'd felt in the office returned, and suddenly he wasn't looking at Anna, at the small table they used for a variety of purposes._ He was looking at a different Anna, many years older than she was, in a long dress of the same color with a white corset and matching jacket._ As quickly as it had come, the pain and his vision cleared, and he was looking at the home and daughter he knew. Blinking hard, he realized he couldn't feel the same wetness. He surreptitiously raised his fingers to his mouth, and they came away clean. Anna, pre-occupied with her meal, hadn't noticed.

Best to just act normal, Booker decided.

"So," he said, popping one of the small pieces of beef into his mouth and swallowing before continuing "How was school?"

"Good." Ann replied, looking up from her plate. "We had a test today."

"What in?"

"Physics."

"Fourteen strikes me as a bit young to grasp the intricacies of reality, or some such nonsense."

She smiled. She had a look in her eye, like she was happily tolerating him and his ideas of proper schooling.

"I actually like it. And I did really well on the test." She offered.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Mr. Harris said-"

He couldn't hear the rest of what she said. The pain had come again, and with it, another vision. _Another older Anna, in different clothes this time. A dark blue skirt and white blouse, her hair done up in a ponytail. They were in some sort of elevator, her and him._

"_You know how I said I had plenty of time to read? Well I tried to figure it out,"_ _she said_ _to him._ _"I read literature on physics and other such things."_

"_Yeah, and what did that teach you?" He asked. _

"_That there's a world of difference between what we see, and what is."_

"-ou okay, Dad? Dad?" He heard faintly.

The vision faded away, and he saw the Anna he was used to. She looked worried. Very worried.

"Some reason I shouldn't be?" He asked.

"You're bleeding." She said. She rubbed a finger beneath her nose. "Right there."

Booker picked up a spare napkin and drew it across his face, wiping away most of the blood.

"Are you… okay, Dad? You're not-" Anna started to say. She had some knowledge of his previous problems where gambling and alcohol were concerned.

"No. I gave that sort of stuff up. You know that." He replied firmly.

"It's just-" She tried again.

"It's just nothing." His tone left no room for debate.

They picked at their plates in awkward silence for several minutes.

"How was the office?" Anna finally broke the silence. "Any interesting requests, or just more paranoid wives?"

Booker smirked. She'd been interested in the goings-on of his job since she was little, and that interest had only grown as she'd aged. It was the more outlandish things she found most exciting. The watching of suspected infidelous husbands might as well have been a housefly compared to some of cases she'd gotten him to tell her about, and occasionally accidentally involved in. The case involving the misunderstood ransom note remained a personal favorite of hers.

The events of today would definitely fit in her idea of an exciting day at the office. But with everything he'd been experiencing since, he didn't feel it wise to tell her.

"No, just more boring cases of men who don't owe money to other men, worried wives about where their husbands go at night."

Anna's face was a study in disappointment. Her sense of wonder and adventure was not a neglected sense.

* * *

Hours later, Booker was alone in his room. Anna was fast asleep, leaving him able to deal with the matters of the day.

He sat on his cot, staring at the bottle in the depths of his bag. The bottle the strange man had given him when he'd left the office.

"I'm probably going to regret this." He said to himself.

He reached into the bag and pulled the bottle out. He held it up, gazing at it. It was artfully crafted, ridges of sky-blue glass forming the patterns of wings. A picture in the center showed a raven's head, a bit of something Booker didn't want to think about clamped in its beak. The pain hit him again, stronger than ever before.

_He saw himself pushing open a door. A man was on the other side, tied to a large plank of wood. Ravens shot out of nowhere, trailing black mist, and tore the man to shreds as he screamed. Booker walked out into a small garden. A flock of ravens flew in front of him. A man, dressed in black, with a coffin strapped to him, appeared amongst them and ran at him, swinging a sword. Booker threw fire from his hands and shot the man dead. He took a bottle from the man's corpse. He yanked the cap off and took a long swig. The color drained from his vision and a raven landed on his hand, beak bloody with a strand of tendon clamped inside. Men in a blue uniforms burst into the room from the other side, firing at him. He pointed at them, and flocks of ravens materialized from mid-air and swarmed the men, pecking and clawing and tearing at their hands, faces, eyes, necks._

He found himself back in his room, staring at the bottle. The same kind of bottle he'd taken off the corpse. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the card.

**Note: Just for the sake of sense, italics are there to diferentiate Colubmia flashbacks from reality. Also in case anyone is wondering, we'll probably never learn what happened with the case of the misunderstood ransom note. I've managed to invent my own "Noodle Incident" by half-accident. For those not versed in the works of Bill Waterson, the "Noodle Incident" is an often-referenced, yet never explained case of incredible misbehavior on the part of pre-adolescent comic strip character Calvin. You can google "Noodle Incident" and get a much better definition of the term. Also, due to some personal problems I won't elaborate on, the next update will likely be at least a week or two off. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Note: Well, I honestly didn't expect to write this chapter this week. I've kinda had a lot a going on, and it's all depressing and personal, so I won't burden you readers with it. So, I'm trying something new in response to the few requests for longer chapters. Usually, I keep chapters set to one specific bit of story or one location. This time, we're going to see how two of those work out. Also, we're going to get into the outlandishly weird stuff now. And some plot development. Also, if you haven't beaten (or even played) the game, seriously DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER. It kinda spoils the whole thing. Please review and comment. I do not own Bioshock, Bioshock Infinite, nor any affiliated characters.**

Stranger in a Strange Land

Chapter 3

Booker gazed at New York, from the edge of the pier.

The strange man had set the meeting place over the phone. Liberty Island, at noon.

Booker looked down at his watch. It was thirty seconds to.

He looked back up, at the city again.

"Incredible, isn't it?" A voice said behind him.

Startled, Booker spun around. The strange man was there, looking off at the city.

"Y'know," the man said "I've seen some truly incredible things. Things those couple million other yous who don't exist wouldn't believe. But there's something about the view of that city from here. Chicago's nice too, if you can see it from the Pier, but this…"

The man sighed appreciatively. He walked forward and set his hands against the railing. He reached into one of his coat pockets and withdrew a wad of papers. It looked like nothing else Booker had ever seen: slightly blue in color, with some number on a edge that he didn't recognize, and a giant triangle in the middle.

"Shit," the man said to himself. "Money's always trouble when you're crossing over."

He opened the leather pouch on his belt again, drawing a long thin rectangular device. The man tapped around on a piece of glass on top of the device before he pointed it at that the wad of paper. This too projected a beam of light, though this one was green in color. The light stopped and the man slipped the device back into place and rolled the pouch up. "Here. Should cover the ferry costs. Bill 'em as business expenses." The man said, handing Booker the wad. Looking at it, Booker now saw that it was now all dollars. Fives and ones.

"Thanks," Booker began, "But I doubt you brought me up here to show me the skyline and-" The static and vision swept him away again. _Hanging in the air by a rotating bunch of hooks strapped to his arm, running down metal lines, firing at various men. The scenery and men changed, but the perspective stayed the same._

Booker snapped back to reality, grasping the railing of the pier as hard as he could.

"So, the process of recollection is still ongoing, I see." The man said.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Booker asked. "I thought you needed my help. Saving existence, or something."

"I do need your help, , but your help would honestly be useless if you don't remember."

"Remember what?" Booker demanded.

"I think you know. Just stop fighting it. Let it happen."

Booker leaned forward, gazing at his reflection in the river.

_He was standing over a tin bowl. A small knitted verse hung in a frame above the bowl. "I shall wash thee of thy sins." It read._

_He smirked, and thought of all he'd done._

"_Good luck with that, pal."_

_He was in a rocket, hurtling into the clouds._

"_Ten thousand feet." A automated voice said. "Fifteen." He was above the clouds, gazing at a city set atop…something. The sun was shining. "Hallelujah."_

_A man and a woman, twins, they looked like, asking him to flip a coin._

"_What's a voxophone?" Booker half asked. The machine in front of him clicked a few times. "What's a voxophone?" he heard his voice come out of the machine._

"_Exactly that. A personal record of voice." The salesman said._

"_Hey, just so we're clear, I'm not paying for this."_

_That other version of Anna, looking down at him as he hung onto the top of a bookcase._

"_Hi there." He said. She screamed and threw the book she was holding at him. He could just make out the title before it hit him. The Odyssey._

"_Then what are you?" Slate, Cornellius Slate, was asking over an intercom. "If you take away all the parts of Booker DeWitt you tried to erase, what's left?"_

_An enormous mechanical bird-man smashed into the airship he and Anna were riding on._

"_Why do you ask 'What?'" the male twin asked._

"_When the delicious question is 'When?'" the female twin finished._

_He was gazing at the other Anna, aged decades. The ships and city were firing down into New York._

"_Say what you will about Comstock. He was a hell of a fortune teller." She said._

_Booker lunged at the man, Comstock, as he griped Anna's…Elizabeth's arm._

"_She's your daughter, you son of a bitch," Booker was saying as he wrapped his finger's around Comstock's throat. "And you abandoned her!" He slammed the man's head on the edge of birdbath. "Was it worth it? Huh? Did you get what you wanted?! Tell me!"_

_Elizabeth…Anna, standing in front of the bird, Songbird._

"_I need you to protect me. Will you do it? Will you do this for me, just… just this one last thing?" She asked it. Him, he finally decided._

_Elizabeth opened a door of a lighthouse surrounded by lighthouses. As he walked through through, Booker saw himself, saw her, saw them, coming through the door of another lighthouse. They were coming through the door of every other lighthouse._

_Elizabeth stood in front of him, in the river, after Wounded Knee. Six other versions of her. One on the right came forward and grabbed his arm. _

"_He's Zachary Comstock." She said._

_One of the left came forward and grabbed his arm._

"_He's Booker DeWitt." She said._

_The Elizabeth he knew came forward._

"_I'm both." He said._

_They reached out and pushed him beneath the water. He let it flow in, fill his lungs._

Booker almost fell down. The man caught him, hoisting him back up to the railing.

"Easy, easy there. You alright?" The man asked.

"Do I look alright?" Booker asked.

His face felt…wet. Very, very wet.

The man reached out with a rag. Booker took it and wiped it across his face. It came away soaked in blood.

"What was-" Booker began.

"Not here. There's somewhere else we can go, where it's much safer to discuss these kinds of things."

"Why didn't we meet there?"

"Because you needed to remember before I could take you."

* * *

They were standing in front a slightly run down bar and tavern, in Brooklyn.

"So, why are we here? What's so damn special about this place?" Booker asked.

"You remember how the world really works, DeWitt?" The man asked.

Booker thought. A million million worlds. There's always a lighthouse. Always a man. The only difference is semantics.

"Yeah. More or less." He admitted.

"Well, then this might be the most significant place in all of existence."

"Why?"

"Somehow, it's everywhere. Every world that is, was, could be, will be, in every time and every city, this bar is here. As it is. A man from one place goes in, a man from another place comes in, and those two men can sit down and have a drink together."

"Sorry, but that doesn't quite make sense."

"Just wait until you see the inside."

* * *

The man pushed the doors open, and Booker was assaulted by a dozen different songs, one of which he'd heard before, through a tear and in another world. Men of all kinds sat in booths and at tables. There was a man in a big bulky whit suit dotted with red stripes, with a big helmet on, talking to another man, a black man in a suit who looked fairly important. The man Booker was with scanned the tables, and focused on a group of four men in dark grey uniforms, sitting around a table, talking earnestly.

The man strode up to the four men, and looked pointedly at one of them. There was a symbol on the man's sleeve Booker had never seen before. Some black symbol set against a white circle set against a red square.

"Hans," the man's fake face faded, showing the high-tech mask. "What exactly are you doing here? Because if you're one of the Hans' I think you are, you really shouldn't be waiting about in here."

Hans gave a sad, if content, look.

"Just having one last hurrah, Officer. One last meeting, as friends, before we get to the business." Hans said.

The man clapped Hans on the back.

"Just be sure you aren't late."

They moved on.

"Who was that, exactly?" Booker asked.

"Hans von Schaffte. Give it about forty years or so, and in your world he'll be one of the most despicable human beings who ever lived." The man turned and looked back at the table. "That man though, and a million million like him, they're some of the most selfless, admirable human beings who ever lived. Him, and those other three, give everything they can give. Statuses, good names, lives, love and respect of their families, so a couple hundred thousand people can escape certain death." They waited for a minute, watching Hans and the other three man. "Come on. Let's see if we can't get ourselves a private room. We've got a lot to talk about."

**Note: Okay, I guess it wasn't as long as I thought I'd make it, but I felt like there was a fairly good place to end it. At least I got in two locations in one chapter. Normally, I'd have called it at Liberty Island, and left the Bar for the next chapter.**

**Oh, and as far as I know, Hans von Schaffte is a completely fictional person. (And any correlation to people who have actually existed is purely coincidential.) I figured that if we're dealing with a mythos that has an infinite number of parallel realities, there have to be some World War Two's with more openly, famously kind and self-sacrificing Nazi's than just Schindler. Also, can anyone guess who the man in the bulky white suit is, and who he's talking to? Or guess where Hans' last name came from?**


End file.
